


Dopplegangland

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: Adorable Sherlock, Crack, Date Cute, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Iain is a shameless flirt, Jealous John, John in a kilt, Kilt Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Photography, Scotland, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Smut, doppelgangers, identical strangers, kiltlock, sad wanking, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on holiday in Scotland, Sherlock is approached by a very flirtatious photographer with a familiar face. John is NOT amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Breakfast in Kabul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449517) by [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42). 



They always say there’s someone out there who looks just like you. And John and Sherlock can certainly attest to that. The consulting detective and his doctor learned that fact better than anyone when they made a pilgrimage to Scotland for a case.

Well of course, brilliant Sherlock solved the case in no time, but the boys decided to stay awhile and take a little respite for themselves, since it was so rare that they got a vacation. So they were sitting in a little coffee shop in Glasgow, relaxing and congratulating themselves on another job well done. John offered to order them some drinks, and Sherlock distractedly agreed, intensely focused on the newspaper he had his nose shoved into. That was where the real trouble began.

Sherlock heard a familiar creak in the chair beside him. “Well, that was fast,” he commented without looking up.

“Well I came over as soon as I saw you,” said John in a Scottish accent.

Sherlock snorted in mild amusement. “When in Rome, speak as the Romans do, eh?”

“Dunno what you mean that. Don’t tell me a gorgeous fella like you’s sittin’ here all by yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, even though he blushed behind his paper. John loved to tease him, but he didn’t realize what an effect it had on him. “Practicing your pickup lines on me now?”

“Could be. Did it work?”

“It might have, if I didn’t know perfectly well you prefer women.”

“How do you know what I prefer? You don’t even know my name,” John laughed.

“What on Earth are you…?” Sherlock put down the paper to give his companion The Eye, but he paused when he caught sight of him. “I thought you shaved this morning.”

The John in front of him didn’t quite match Sherlock’s expectation. His jumper was dark blue instead oatmeal-colored (showcasing his denim eyes fabulously). His hair wasn’t as militaristically combed down as usual, but fluffed up playfully with gel. And somehow, he’d grown a ginger scuff of a beard that suddenly had Sherlock wanting John to rub it all over his naked body. It was much nicer than that awful mustache he’d grown that one time. And most inexplicably, he had a green and white scarf draped over his shoulders that Sherlock was sure John did not own.

John shrugged and replied to Sherlock’s shaving comment in that hypnotic Scottish brogue, “I haven’t shaved in a couple o’ days. People seem to like the scruff.” He winked flirtatiously at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at John in confusion. “What is going-”

“What the hell?” declared another John voice from behind him, this one properly English and more familiar than the utterances of this…temptingly rugged lothario in front of him.

Sherlock twisted around in his chair. _There_ was his John, in his oatmeal jumper, holding two steaming mugs and staring at the other John with just as much confusion on his face that Sherlock felt at the moment.

“Sherlock,” said English John slowly. “You didn’t steal some of my DNA and clone me, did you?”

The Scottish John burst into laughter. “Fuckin’ hell!” he exclaimed. “What are the odds? I come over to chat up this sexy piece of arse and he’s dating my bloody twin!”

“You were chatting me up?” “We’re not dating.” Sherlock and John respectively responded at the same time.

“I think we should start over,” said John. “I’m John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?”

“Iain MacKelpie, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Iain turned his grin back to Sherlock. “’Specially you, sweetness.”

Sherlock blushed. “I feel a bit foolish. I should have realized you weren’t my friend. I’m normally quite perceptive when it comes to detail.”

“Oh, ‘friend’? So, not together then? Good to know.” Iain seemed pleased.

“Yeah, okay, we get it…Pepe Le Pew,” said John in annoyance as he sat down. “Did you have a reason to be over here, or did you just want to harass my friend?”

“He’s not harassing me,” said Sherlock defensively.

“He’s over here giving you unwanted attention, that’s harassment,” John insisted.

“It’s not… _un_ wanted,” Sherlock mumbled, taking a sip of his coffee to hide his face.

Iain rolled his eyes and began to get up, saying, “Okay, I can see when I’m not wanted-”

“No, stay, please,” Sherlock said quickly. “Ignore him, what does he know? He’s an idiot.”

John angrily drank his coffee.

“No, I actually do have to go,” said Iain apologetically. “But if you’d like to meet up sometime…here’s my card.” He slipped a square of paper from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

“Oh, you’re a photographer?” said Sherlock.

“Aye. Say, a beauty like you’d be a great model. If you’re not already. Are you?”

“No,” said Sherlock, blushing again at his lap. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“Well, stop by my studio sometime for a session, you’ll see what I mean.” Iain gave him a friendly smirk. “Hope we meet again, Sherlock Holmes. I better go now. Wouldn’t want to _harass_ you.” He rolled his eyes at John and strolled out of the café with his drink, whistling cheerfully.

“Can you believe that guy?” grumbled John. “What a prat.”

“I liked him,” Sherlock admitted.

John choked. “Ex _cuse_ me?! _You_ liked someone. You.”

“Why is that so hard to comprehend?” Sherlock inquired.

“Oh, I have no idea, Mister ‘Married-To-My-Work’,” John spat. “Just that you despise everyone. Especially when they’re coming onto you.”

“I don’t despise…everyone,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well what makes him so special?” John inquired.

Sherlock sipped his coffee to stall for time. What could he tell John? That he was thrilled to have found a scruffy, Scottish version of John that was actually attracted in him? Sherlock knew he was…infatuated with his flatmate, but John had made it clear their first night together he wasn’t interested. “He possesses a certain _je ne sais quoi_ ,” Sherlock answered.

“Well, I _sais quoi_ : he’s a scumbag, that’s what it is.”

“John, how do you know, you knew this man for less time than I did, and I think we’ve established by now that I’m a much more competent judge of character than you,” Sherlock spat.

“Okay, fine,” John smoldered. “But there’s one potentially awkward detail you’ve overlooked.”

“And that is?”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, I dunno, that he looks exactly like _me_?”

“There might be…a certain likeness,” Sherlock admitted carefully.

“‘ _A certain likeness_ ’?” John repeated in disbelief. “Okay, either you need your eyes examined, or you’re having me on. You cannot look at that creep and tell me he doesn’t look exactly like me.”

“Maybe he does. It’s just transport.” Sherlock shrugged in what he hoped was a convincing manner.

John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t think you understand. He was coming onto you…because he wants to… _get off_ with you. Do you understand what I’m saying? He wants to have sex. With you.”

Sherlock had finished his coffee. He set the mug down very deliberately and looked at John. “What if he does? I would be amenable. Don’t look so surprised, John, I do actually have a sex drive. And Iain is very attractive. What’s the matter?...” Sherlock leaned forward slightly. “Does that _bother_ you?”

John swallowed. “N-no. Why would it? I don’t care.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, forcing a smile. “Then I think I will call Iain. I’ve earned a nice vacation; I’m sure we’ll have a grand old time.”

“But I-I thought you…and me…might have fun together,” said John.

“Oh, you don’t want to hang around with me,” said Sherlock casually. “I’m sure you’d rather chase around some highland lassies, eh, ‘Three Continents’? Much more fun for you to catch a handful of kilt then spending time with me.”

John swallowed. “Ye-yeah. You’re right.”

“Well then.” Sherlock raised his mug in salute. “To our sex holiday.”

John didn’t look so certain, but he clinked his mug against Sherlock’s. “To getting laid,” he agreed.

* * *

John Watson was a jealous man.

He’d been madly in love with his insane, brilliant, gorgeous flatmate practically since they’d first met, but Sherlock had shot him down so fast, John thought he’d never have a chance with him. He assumed Sherlock was asexual or aromantic or whatever. Apparently not. The Woman had been one thing, but  _this_...!

He didn’t get it. What did that Scottish pervert have that he didn’t? Literally the only difference between John and Iain was that Iain had a beard!

“‘You must be a model, you sexy piece of arse. Why don’t you come to my studio and let me take some pervy pictures of you, sweetness?’” John mimicked to himself as he was taking a shower. God, the idea of Sherlock’s naked body being seen by that creep...

Sherlock’s naked body...

John’s prick suddenly twitched. John took the small bar of soap the hotel had supplied and started running it all over his body. He closed his eyes.

He could imagine the soap being in bigger hands, musician’s hands, as trails of lather trailed over his body. The soap, the bumpy raised letters in the mold, rubbed over his nipples, and John gasped, his cock swelling even more.

_Fuck it._

John slicked up his hands and let them tease his entire body, running over his belly, his hips, his arse. Then he took his needy cock in hand and stroked evenly, sudsing it up, pretending it was Sherlock touching him.

“Ohh...” John moaned quietly, glad the loud rush of water could hide his sounds of pleasure.

In his fantasy, Sherlock was standing behind him, pressed against him, his erection nudging in between John’s arsecheeks. His long arms were wrapped around John, and he was gently, teasingly running his hand up and down John’s length, kissing his neck. John gasped and braced himself against the shower wall with one hand, continuing to pleasure himself with the other. His right hand. Sherlock was right handed. Sherlock would use his right.

Now that he was slightly bent over, John could imagine Sherlock draping himself over John’s back, rubbing himself off between his buttocks and lapping up the trickles of warm water running down John’s back. His cock was teasing John’s entrance, and he was moaning John’s name filthily, his hand speeding up on John’s cock-

John suddenly came with a shout, which he quickly covered by shoving his fist against his mouth. After a second, John heard a rap on the door. “John? Is everything alright?”

John stifled a moan as the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips, regardless of the passionlessness of his rich baritone, made his cock give a second strong burst. “I-I’m fine,” said John breathily as the aftershocks of his orgasm slowly wore off. “Just slipped a little. I’m okay.”

“Alright. Do hurry up in there, I’d like to brush my teeth sometime this evening.”

John sighed and rinsed the soap and...other stuff off of himself, then shut off the water, toweled off, changed into his pajamas, and vacated the bathroom so Sherlock could do his business. He tried to act as natural as possible, so Sherlock wouldn’t deduce that he’d been wanking to the image of him.

_Fuck. **Fuck.** _


	2. Day 2

The next morning, when John was waking up, Sherlock was already showered and dressed. For some reason he looked especially gorgeous, and John’s morning wood twitched in mild interest, despite last night's activities in the shower. _Down, boy_ , he told himself.

“What are we up to today?” John asked as he watched Sherlock put on his socks.

“I told you, I’ve made plans with Iain.”

John’s boner deflated in disappointment. “When’d you tell me that?”

“Last night, after I brushed my teeth. Don’t you remember?”

“Sherlock, I was asleep then.”

“Well it’s not my fault you weren’t listening.” Sherlock stood after having put on his shoes. “I’ll text you. Sleep in. Get some food. Bring somebody nice back to the hotel - just make sure you clean up after yourselves, the housekeeping service deals with enough unpleasantness as it is.” With a click of the tongue and a wink, Sherlock was out the door.

John lay in bed, feeling rejected.

* * *

“Sherlock! Glad to see you again,” grinned Iain wolfishly as the detective came to his table outside the little cafe. “Coffee?” the photographer asked as Sherlock sat down.

“Yes, please. Black, two sugars.”

Iain poured him the coffee and passed it to him, along with a pastry. “You’ve got to try one of these, they’re delicious.”

Sherlock bit into one and found that it was cream filled. “Mmm. Very good,” he said, dabbing his mouth delicately with his napkin.

Iain kept having him try different delicacies, till finally Sherlock had to kindly reject him. “Anymore and I’ll pop right out of my clothing.”

Iain’s eyes rolled over Sherlock very blatantly. “What a shame that’d be.”

Sherlock blushed. “Umm...how about a walk?”

After they paid their tab, they strolled along the strand, peering into the little shops and shooting the breeze. Sherlock found that Iain was surprisingly bright, and not at all boring. If only there wasn’t John...

Sherlock was worried. Was this considered leading someone on? He knew he was partially doing this to get a rise out of John, but Iain was really nice. Sherlock didn't want to hurt his feelings.

 _No_ , Sherlock told himself stubbornly.  _John dates dozens of girls who don't mean anything to him, why shouldn't I get to have a fling of my own?_ Sherlock firmly put all guilt aside, determined not to let anything ruin this day.

To Sherlock’s surprise, Iain paused at a little flower selling cart to buy some lilac.

“Here. I want to try something.” Iain began carefully placing little sprigs in Sherlock’s curls. The photographer grinned at him. “They’re the same color as your shirt.”

Sherlock blushed. “Oh, that’s lovely,” remarked Iain, though Sherlock couldn’t be sure if Iain meant him or his own handiwork. “Like a fairy prince, Sherlock Holmes!” Iain declared once his work was done. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get a picture of this. May I?”

“O-okay,” Sherlock stammered. Iain led him into a patch of sun, fussed with him for a moment, then snapped a picture with his phone. “Ach, that’s gorgeous, lookit.” Iain showed him the picture. “You were meant to be taken pictures of. I can’t believe you’ve never tried modeling. Those eyes, those cheekbones...”

Sherlock turned red as Iain lightly traced one of them with his fingertip.

“Can I use this in my gallery?” Iain asked, his attention back to the photo. “This is some really good work, if I do say so myself.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock immediately. “I’d be flattered.”

Iain grinned at him. “Come on, my fairy prince.” He held Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock could almost make himself imagine it was John.

* * *

While Sherlock was having his dream date, John was still in bed, flipping through the television, and sulking.

“ _You can’t marry Ronaldo, Cynthia!_ ” exclaimed the generically handsome soap opera star to his equally generically beautiful female costar. " _I’m in love with you! I have been since the first moment I laid eyes on you. Leave him and marry_ _me_ _!_ ”

“ _Oh, Bertram!_ ” sighed “Cynthia”, swooning dramatically.

“Oh, please,” grumbled John, switching off the TV in disgust.

This was stupid. If Sherlock bloody Holmes could get a date, he sure as hell could.

John got dressed in the best clothes he'd packed ( _Sherlock's not the only one who can clean up nicely_ , thought John) and headed down to the hotel bar where he intended to pick up the sweetest honey he sniffed out and completely take his mind off Sherlock Holmes.

John should have known it wouldn't be that simple.

"Single malt whiskey," John ordered, taking a seat at the bar. The barkeep obediently brought him his drink and John took a deep swig of liquid courage. He hadn't tried to pick up anyone since he'd realized he was hopelessly in love with his flatmate, but hey, his army mates hadn't called him "Three Continents Watson" for nothing.

Someone occupied the stool beside him and said in a familiar baritone, "A glass of Scotch, please - er, the cheap stuff." John nearly choked. He looked up wildly.

A man who looked  _identical_ to Sherlock, save for the short ginger locks, wearing a royal blue and gold pilot's uniform had materialized beside him. If John didn't know full well Sherlock was out with the Scottish bastard, John would swear Sherlock had changed his hair and outfit just to screw with him. The ginger even had those same two utterly lickable freckles under his left ear that Sherlock had.  _What the FUCK is this, Attack Of The Clones?!_ John thought in bewilderment.

Then, an evil little plan formed in John Watson's mind.  _Alright, Sherlock Holmes. Two can play at this game._ John smirked.

"Hey, barkeep," John called. "Put his drink on my bill."

"Oh," said Ginger Sherlock in surprise. He gave John a tiny smile. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," grinned John, shaking his hand. "I'm John."

"Captain Martin Crieff,"announced the ginger proudly.

"What a coincidence. I'm a captain too. An army captain though. You staying in Glasgow long, Captain?"

Martin seemed to preen at his title. "Just the one night, then flying back to London in the morning."

"Good," said John, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully. "Good."


	3. Day 3

John lay in bed feeling defeated. In the next bed over, Sherlock was still sound asleep, a smile plastered on his face. _I bet he's dreaming about his precious Iain_ , thought John bitterly.

His attempt at a revenge fuck with the airline captain had been a bust. Crieff had been so busy spouting every annoying fact about airplanes at him, totally oblivious that he was being seduced, John had finally just given up, politely excused himself, and gone back to his room around 10 o'clock. When he'd entered the room, he could hear the sound of the shower running and Sherlock singing. John's prick gave a sad little twitch, and John sighed and flopped onto his bed, turning on the tube and watching the news till Sherlock emerged, still damp and in fresh pajamas.

"Hello," said Sherlock. He was fucking _smiling_. The date must have been phenomenal. Or someone had gotten mysteriously murdered. John felt terrible for hoping it was the latter.

"Hey," John replied. He tried his best not to sound like he was dying inside - which he was. "Good day?"

Sherlock fell back onto the bed. " _Very_ good," he responded.

"Well, that's...good," said John, unable to come up with a new adjective.

Sherlock turned over and looked at him. "John, do you think I could be a model?"

"Er...what?"

"Iain wants to do a photo session with me tomorrow. He..." Sherlock blushed happily at his sheets. "He called me gorgeous."

_And that **worked**?! Holy fucking weasel shit, if I had known that was all it took, I would have called you gorgeous the first night we met! Beautiful, handsome, stunning, lovely, sexy, irresistible - let me find a thesaurus and I'd be able to give you some more words in a minute. I'd have written a Goddamn ode - a ballad - a sonnet. I don't know how to write one of those, but I'd have looked it up. I'd have given you such a tongue lashing, I would have had you eating out of the palm of my fucking hand._

"Yeah, I think you could be a model. You look...nice, I guess," said John, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, rage, and lust. "Aristocratic."

"Is that good?"

"I don't know, Sherlock, who cares what I think anyway?" John got up from his bed and forced himself not to storm over to the loo. "I need a shower," he spat.

He thought Sherlock might have said his name just before the door slammed shut. But John didn't respond.

When he'd come back out, Sherlock was fast asleep. John too, went to bed.

Now it was morning. John watched Sherlock sleeping peacefully, then, feeling the need for some air, got up, put on his trainers and workout clothes, and went for a run.

* * *

Sherlock had indeed been dreaming about a certain short, golden haired, jumper wearing person. But it wasn't Iain.

They were back at home, at 221B Baker Street, in their living room. But all the furniture and books and knick-knacks had disappeared. All that remained was the fireplace, burning merrily, and on the floor were red silk sheets, scattered rose petals, and burning candles.

Sherlock was on his back on the floor, with John on top of him, caged in his arms, their hard cocks rubbing together steadily. Sherlock couldn't move, could only moan like a whore, paralyzed with pleasure as John controlled him, guided him, frotted against him.

"God, Sherlock," groaned John, sucking on his neck, hard enough to bruise (the thought of John marking him, claiming him, making him  _his_ , had Sherlock moaning again). "Fuck, you're so gorgeous like this. So hard and desperate for me. Look at you, leaking all over yourself."

"John," gasped Sherlock, rocking into him, needing more stimulation.

"You need it bad, don't you?" John's voice was low and dark with lust, his indigo eyes obscured by his engorged pupils. "You filthy thing. Need me inside you?"

"Yes, John, yes!" cried Sherlock.

John slipped one lubed digit deep inside him, brushing his prostate. "You're all mine, Sherlock Holmes. Always and completely _mine_."

"Yes, John," whimpered Sherlock, shaking from his arousal.

John fucked him with two fingers as he slipped down his body to take him in his mouth. Sherlock sobbed as the glorious wet heat engulfed him, his fingers tangled in John's short blonde hair, chanting his name-

He was drowning from all the pleasure. The sensation, John's mouth around him and his fingers driving into him, proved too much, and he was coming, coming-

Sherlock jerked awake in a puddle of his own ejaculate. He immediately looked at the other bed. Oh thank God, John was out. Sherlock was sure he had been calling his best friend's name in his sleep.

It was the day of his photoshoot with Iain. After stripping his bed and gathering the soiled sheets for the maids to collect, Sherlock showered, primped his hair with mousse, and put on his favorite black trousers and aubergine shirt. He felt a nervous buzzing in his stomach. But good nervous. Like...butterflies.

"Ah, hey gorgeous," said Iain, grinning, as he entered the studio. "The camera's all set up. Come in, come in."

Iain led Sherlock to a room with a white backdrop and a stool set up. "Now, you just sit there, like that, and just try to look natural. Look at the camera? Good, good..." Iain snapped a few photos. "Aw, yeah, that's beautiful. Now cross your arms? Yeah, that's right..."

Iain took pictures for nearly an hour, of Sherlock sitting, standing, smiling, glaring, just commenting over and over about how photogenic he was. Finally, Iain relented. "Alright, you've been as patient as a lamb, come over here so I can show you your exquisite self."

Iain, Sherlock had to admit, had a way with the camera. He could make Sherlock look beautiful in ways he didn't think possible. "Doesn't do ya justice, sweetness," said Iain, as if he could read Sherlock's mind. They were sitting very close together on the couch in Iain's office. "Now lookie at this one here. My God, that look on your face, you near about melted my camera."

It was one of the ones where Sherlock was glaring at the camera. "Your eyes," said Iain. "They're like blue flame."

Sherlock turned to look at him. Iain was staring into them, and his face was very close to his.

Iain's voice was very soft, barely above a whisper. "I feel like they're melting  _me_ ," the Scotsman rumbled.

Sherlock swallowed hard. His eyes fluttered shut as Iain slowly cupped his cheek.

"Skin's so soft." Sherlock could feel his breath against his mouth, and he fought back a shudder. "Can't capture that on a camera, no."

The pad of Iain's thumb traced the underside of his bottom lip. "Lips are soft too," Iain murmured. "I wonder how they taste."

Sherlock froze completely.

"Can I find out, Sherlock?" Iain whispered. "Is that alright?"

Iain was looming so close...he was barely a breath away. His beard hairs were gently scraping his skin. Sherlock could feel the heat of his lips...he was about to-

In the instant before Iain's lips touched his, an image appeared in Sherlock's mind.

_John._

Sherlock gasped and pulled back, putting a hand on Iain's chest. "I can't," he sighed miserably. "I want to, really, I do. You have no idea how much. But...I can't."

Iain exhaled. He sat back, giving Sherlock a respectful amount of space while remaining close. "It's that friend of yours, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded sadly.

Iain shrugged. "Aye. Well, I don't blame ye. Hard to resist this face." He smiled ruefully at Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed appreciatively. "I'm sorry. You've been wonderful. It's just that..."

"You love him," Iain finished for him.

Sherlock's cheeks burned, but he nodded again.

"Then what are you doin' here?" Iain said, squeezing his shoulder. "Go get your fella. 'Cause, sweetness, I know heartache when I see it, an' that boy's achin' for you something fearsome."

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "Re-really?" he breathed.

"That boy looked down right murderous when he saw me flirtin' with ye. He's  _yours_. And he wants you to be  _his_."

A smile broke out on Sherlock's face. "Thank you." He kissed Iain's cheek. He leapt to his feet and strode for the door.

"Er, hey, Sherlock," said Iain, before he got to the door. He coughed awkwardly. "If things don't work out with your mate...I'll be here. You know..." Iain winked. "If you need a shoulder to cry on."

Sherlock smiled. "Goodbye, Iain." And he left, feeling lighter than air.

* * *

"John! John, there's something I need to tell you-" Sherlock stopped short as he barreled into the hotel room.

John was standing by his bed, obviously just back from a run. He was sweaty and flushed. But as attractive as that sight was, that wasn't what had Sherlock's attention.

John was in his army fatigues. An olive green tee shirt that was just fitted enough to show off his body, and camouflage trousers that cupped his arse perfectly. He was wearing tennis shoes instead of combat boots, but it didn't distract from the image in front of him. To top off the look were John's dog tags, dangling from his neck. It was like every erotic military fantasy Sherlock had ever had. Better.

" _Captain_..." Sherlock breathed in awe.

"Sherlock?" said John, raising an eyebrow.

Unable to control himself, Sherlock surged across the room and pulled John into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the sexy times begin ;)


	4. Day 3, Continued

John gasped for breath as Sherlock pulled back. "What in the hell-"

"I'm sorry," blushed Sherlock. "I just came in and you looked so..."  _Manly, rugged, gorgeous, perfect, like every wet dream I've ever had put together._

John looked down at himself in confusion. "I don't understand...oh." He looked back up at Sherlock. Slowly, he smirked. "So you've got a thing for soldiers, eh?"

"I have a thing for _you_ ," Sherlock corrected automatically. He blushed harder. "That is to say - I mean - what I mean is-"

"Sherlock, what is it?" asked John, cupping his face in concern.

"I-I..." Sherlock stammered. "I came back here to tell you that the only reason I went out with Iain was because he looked like you, and I wanted to make you jealous, but today when he tried to kiss me, I couldn't go through with it because  _he wasn't you_. So I broke things off with him and came back here to tell you that-"

John shut him up with another kiss. "I love you too," he breathed, staring into his eyes.

"Yes," murmured Sherlock, flustered, but happy. "Precisely. That."

John grinned and kissed him again. "You know...I'm not the only one who had a twin running around here. Yesterday, I met a guy in the hotel bar who looked _identical_ to you. I tried to make time with him, but..." John smiled shyly. "He just wasn't you."

"How very odd," said Sherlock. "What are the chances that  _both_ of us would encounter the other's identical copy?"

John pulled him close and squeezed the genius's arse. Sherlock gasped. "I don't particularly give a shit," John growled. "All I care about is the fact that Sherlock Holmes loves me and is with me in my hotel room." With that, he practically  _picked_ the detective up and set him on his bed, crawling on top of him. "And there's so much I want to do with him," John whispered, before delving down to devour Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock moaned and tugged John closer, desperate to have him as near as possible. John broke off the kiss and panted, "...of course, if that's alright with you?"

"John, I've wanted this for so long," Sherlock stressed. "I want everything with you. I'll take whatever you give me."

"Good, because I want to give you everything," John groaned. He began mouthing at Sherlock's jaw and neck hungrily. "Sherlock, you're just so gorgeous and amazing and brilliant and wonderful and I want to _give you everything_."

Sherlock gently cupped his face and made him look him in the eye. He smiled up at him adoringly. "You _are_ everything, John."

John smiled softly down at him and leant down to kiss him once again, pouring all the adoration and devotion and affection and admiration he felt for this man into it. Sherlock kissed him back with just as much emphasy, wrapping his long arms around John's neck to have him as close as possible. Their lips met over and over again, sliding against each other. Then Sherlock's lips parted for John's tongue, and John could taste tea and scones with butter and toothpaste and something gorgeously delicious and sweet that was just pure, unadulterated _Sherlock_.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had his fingers buried in John's hair, enjoying the feeling of coarse, sweat damp strands against his skin. He couldn't get enough of the sensation of John's mouth plundering his, the intoxicating scent of his musk, his strong form caging his own bird-thin body like he'd never let anything hurt him. Like they belonged to each other. Sherlock loved it - loved him. But he needed more.

He found the hem of John's tee shirt and hoisted it over the army doctor's head, letting go of his lips only a second before drinking from them again like a man dying of thirst. He let his hands rove the expanse of John's warm skin. He could feel firm muscle under a cozy layer of fat - that was John in a nutshell. The hardened warrior alongside the gentle healer and friend. Neither side dominated the other, it was just the way John was. Hard and soft, fierce and tender, a lion and a lamb.

Sherlock found one of John's nipples and traced it with his fingers teasingly, perking it up into a firm nub. "I love you," he whispered when John broke for air, shivering. He realized he hadn't actually said it.

John smiled down at him, stroking his cheek. "I love you too, sweetheart. I always have."

Their lips met again in a slow, solemn kiss. John moaned, pulling them up into a sitting position, with Sherlock straddling his lap. "What-what can I do for you, Sherlock?" he asked. "We can just kiss, if that's all you want, or we can...you know." John wiggled his hips playfully, winking at him. "What do you want, hmm?" He stroked Sherlock's hair like he was petting a cat.

What _did_ he want? It was like being at a restaurant where everything on the menu sounded delicious and made his mouth water just at the thought. Sherlock wanted to sample every savory dish. But, he figured, he had better pander to John's needs. "I'm somewhat practised at oral sex," Sherlock suggested. "I used to fellate my dealer at university in exchange for coca-" Sherlock closed his mouth. A shadow had passed across John's face at the mention of his past drug abuse. "Yes, well...maybe not that practised. It was a very long time ago."

John growled and pressed him flat on his back again. "You talk too much." He kissed Sherlock, invading his mouth with his tongue and effectively making the detective lose all train of thought. John let up and grinned. "Not that I mind so much. I could get off just to the sound of your voice." He plundered his mouth again. Sherlock moaned.

"All that noise you make while you're deducing - should've have known you'd be loud in bed too," chuckled John darkly. "My little sex kitten." He kissed a suction-y trail down his jaw.

"Little? That's rich, coming from someone who's half a foot shorter than me," snorted Sherlock.

John pointedly thrust his clothed erection between Sherlock's spread legs, and Sherlock gasped. "I'm big where it's counts, smart arse," John smirked.

"Ohh, John..."

John's breath was hot against his skin as he kissed and licked at his neck. "That what you want, love? Need my fat cock inside you, stuffing you, pounding you so good you see stars? I'll have my come so far deep inside you, you'll never be able to get it out completely, no matter how hard you try. You'll always have a little piece of me inside you, so you can never forget this day. Not that you'll want to. I'll make it so good, make you come so hard and sweet, you'll wonder how you ever survived without me fucking you."

"Yes, John, please," sobbed Sherlock, arching against him. "Take me."

"Mmm, yes, love, I will," moaned John happily. "Let's get these clothes off you, eh? Just had to wear the purple shirt of sex, didn't you?"

"The...purple shirt of...what?" Sherlock said in confusion as John unbuttoned the garment in question.

"Oh." John guffawed guiltily. "It's just...this shirt. That's what I call it in my head. God, all your shirts drive me insane, but this one in particular...it makes you look like a sexy plum or something."

Sherlock broke into a fit of giggles. " _A sexy plum?!_ " He threw his head back in uncontrollable laughter.

"Yeah, alright, so I couldn't really think of a better analogy!" John laughed in kind. The two spent a good amount of time laughing together. Sherlock didn't think it was possible, but he fell in love with the other man even more, and couldn't help but reach for him to drag him into another kiss. "I didn't think it could be like this," the detective murmured.

"What's that, love?" John asked, still giggling a bit.

"I didn't think people laughed while making love," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't think sex was supposed to be funny."

"Sometimes it is," said John. "Laughter is always good, when you're laughing with someone you're in love with. _Everything's_ better when you're with the person you love."

Sherlock smiled in agreement. "It is."

Their lips came together once again, and John pulled up on him so he could slip his shirt from his shoulders. Sherlock's hand slid up John's chest and fingered the chain of the soldier's dog tags.

"You never exactly answered my question," said John between kisses.

"Mm? What question?" sighed Sherlock, mind fuzzy from the kissing - John was a _very_ good kisser.

"Soldiers. Do. You. Like. Soldiers?" John punctuated every word with a kiss.

Sherlock smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, I can _deduce_ that you do," John rumbled back, now kissing along his neck, causing goosebumps of pleasure to run up and down Sherlock's spine. "I just want to hear you admit it."

"Ah-" Sherlock arched as John lapped over a sensitive spot. "I - mmm, John - might do. _John._ "

"Hmmm." John sounded mischievously thoughtful. He slipped his dog tags off of his neck - and put them around Sherlock's. "I wanna see you in just these," he murmured in his ear.

" _Yes_..." hissed Sherlock. They hurried out of their shoes, socks, trousers, and pants. "Oh..." Sherlock breathed, seeing John's cock, huge and hard, weeping against his belly. He wanted it everywhere, in his mouth, his arse...

"God, you're beautiful," John whispered, also drinking in the sight of his partner naked. "Like a marble statue or something."

Sherlock blushed. "I'm not as beautiful as you."

"Oh, love," smiled John, kissing him deeply. "I don't think anyone's ever called me beautiful before."

How could they not? With John's golden hair and fine solid body and eyes like cornflowers. His pink starburst of gunshot wound on his shoulder, evidence of his bravery and goodness, that just made him all the more arresting. Sherlock thought John was utterly magnificent. Masculinity incarnate. The body of an ancient warrior, like Hercules or Achilles. A divine form sculpted by the gods themselves.

Sherlock found himself leaning forward to taste that tempting flesh, take in the salt of him. He nosed along the soft contours of his muscles, memorizing them all in his Mind Palace, as meticulously as he would a subway system map. He reverently ran the flat of his tongue over one of his pink nipples, and sucked it into his mouth.

"Ah," gasped John, his hand loosely grasping Sherlock's curls. "Sherlock, that's...that's..."

Sherlock suckled the other side, wanting to slather his taste buds in nothing but the warm, salty spice of John's skin. "Oh god, Sherlock," said John, wrenching Sherlock away, to the detective's disappointment. "God, you're wonderful, love, please, lie back, let me do something for you-"

 _But I had barely started!_ Sherlock thought in frustration. His anguish was short lived, however, when John's lips landed on him, mouthing along his collarbones. "John..."

"That's it, love, let me take care of you." John was kissing straight down his torso, rubbing his nipples (Sherlock mewled in delight), his tongue dipping briefly into his navel. Down, down, down...

"John? What are you- _ohhhhhh_ ," moaned Sherlock loudly as John swallowed him down. His hips automatically pushed forward.

"Mm-mm." John gently held them down as he sucked him. His head bobbed up and down, Sherlock's cock sliding in and out of John's slick, warm heat. Sherlock was burning up. It was heaven.

" _Johnnn_ ," Sherlock moaned, gripping John's hair.

"You're so _loud_ , love," gasped John, popping off of him. "I love it." He wrapped one hand around his shaft and slid the head of him into his mouth, teasing salt from the slit. Sherlock yelped as his cock throbbed in John's hand.

John pulled off of him just long enough wet his fingers in his own mouth. Then he sucked Sherlock back in, his fingers slipping behind his balls to rub at his opening, relaxing his muscles enough to slip the tip of his index finger inside him.

 _Oh my God_ , Sherlock realized as John gently fingered him while he deep throated him. _This is just like my fantasy! John really is a dream!_

Except he wasn't. He was very much real.

" _Sherlock_ ," moaned John around his cock. At that exact moment, his finger slid just far enough that it brushed his sweet spot.

And just like that, with a loud cry, Sherlock was coming, with no warning. "J-John," he stammered, lost in ecstasy, as John swallowed down his release, multiplying his pleasure. "Oh, God... _John_..."

Finally his climax subsided and John was crawling back up his body. "S-sorry," stammered Sherlock, embarrassed. "Just sort of h-happened-"

"Oh my God, Sherlock, don't _apologize_ ," John gasped, kissing him deeply, his mouth awash with the taste of Sherlock's come. "Do you know how fucking _hot_ that was? Oh my God..." John rutted his very hard cock against Sherlock's belly. "So close, _unh_...touch me, sweetheart, get me off, please?"

"Yes, John," gasped Sherlock, reaching down to wrap his hand around John's cock. John moaned as Sherlock stroked him. "Yes, darlin', thas it, oh God," he panted in his ear. Pretty soon he was coming all over Sherlock's torso, swearing and gasping Sherlock's name. "Oh, Sherlock..." John cupped his face and kissed him over and over. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," Sherlock whispered, so happy he felt like he could cry. A blush bloomed across his nose and cheeks. "Sorry I ejaculated early."

"I said don't be sorry for that, sweetheart," John laughed breathlessly, kissing his temple, stroking his curls. "You can come in my mouth anytime you want."

"But you didn't get to... _bugger_ me," Sherlock protested.

John smiled ruefully. "Hey, if we're being totally honest here, I probably wouldn't have made it much longer either. You get me so excited." John brushed Sherlock's nose with his own. "Maybe the next time, yeah?" He grinned.

Sherlock couldn't do anything but grin right back.

Their post-coital bliss was rudely interrupted by the sound of sharp knocking at the door. "Huh. Wonder who that could be," muttered John, rising to slip on his dressing gown. Sherlock immediately missed his warmth.

John cracked the door open. A tall, burly, bearded man in an ill-fitting suit was waiting in the hall. His nameplate read  **MANAGER**. "Can we help you?" said John politely.

The manager cleared his throat. "Hate to interrupt, gentleman," he said in a thick brogue. "But we've had some complaints about noise from your neighbors...on both sides. And across the hall. And the ones downstairs...and upstairs."

"Oh. Oh my," said John, blushing hard. "I'm so sorry."

The manager seemed like he was hiding a smirk. "Nothin' wrong with havin' a bit o' fun. Just try to keep it down, eh, boys?"

"Yes, sir. We're done now, sir, I promise," John laughed weakly.

The manager turned away, chuckling wistfully, "Ah, to love like that again," as he walked away.

John shut and locked the door. He looked over at Sherlock, still lying on his bed, stark naked. Sherlock couldn't fight the smile cracking across his face. John broke too, leaning against the door as he laughed. Sherlock opened his arms, and John crossed the room, letting his robe flutter to the ground as he slid back into bed beside his best friend. The lovers' limbs wrapped around each other, and John buried his nose in Sherlock's curls. "Love you," he murmured.

"I love you, John," sighed Sherlock happily, nuzzling his face into his chest.

"Mmm," rumbled John. "Let's just stay in bed all day, okay?"

"I'd like that," said Sherlock as they snuggled so close together, it was hard to tell where Sherlock Holmes ended and John Watson began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! More sexytimes! :D


	5. Home

John and Sherlock came back home, after several more days of wallowing in their own happiness and coupley-ness. John never figured Sherlock would be the type to even _want_ to do couple things, but the detective was just full of surprises.

And he was all John's. And John was his. Finally.

The night they returned, they were starting to get a little frisky, when suddenly, Sherlock stopped him. "Hold on. I bought you something in Scotland I want you to try on."

John lifted an eyebrow. He hoped it wasn't a thong or a butt plug or something...they needed to work up to that. "What is it?" he asked.

Sherlock looked disappointed. "Oh come on, you can't guess what it is?"

John sighed. "Well, not all of us are geniuses, Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright. It's in a white cardboard box in my suitcase. Go put it on." He smiled mischievously.

"Okay," laughed John nervously, heading into the bedroom, still unsure as to what he might find.

But when he did open the box, John did feel pretty stupid for not being able to guess what it was. He slid the surprisingly comfortable wool up his thighs and found that the waistline sat perfectly on his hips. Of course Sherlock had been able to deduce his measurements to the letter...or maybe he'd just peeked at his trousers when John was in the shower or something. The hem didn't  _quite_ meet his knee, but John figured Sherlock had wanted it a bit short. There was also a sporran to match, but John decided to leave it off for now.

"It's a Watson tartan," said Sherlock from the doorway, unable to hide the hunger in his eyes as he stared at John in his new blue, yellow, and green kilt. "I had it made specially, by the best tailor in Glasgow. I wanted to surprise you."

"It's great," John proclaimed, swishing around, enjoying the whoosh of cool air against his inner thighs - was this why girls liked wearing skirts?

Sherlock came over and wrapped his arms around him, nipping at his neck. "The traditional way to wear it is _without_ underwear," he murmured in John's ear salaciously.

John grinned. "Och, me wee laddie, ahs eef ah'd eever weer oohnderweer fer ye," he said in a very bad imitation Scottish accent.

Sherlock burst into laughter. "Oh God! No, don't do that!"

"Hoots, mon?" John said, grinning.

Sherlock laughed harder. "That's terrible!"

"Ah, what's the matter, me wee little scone, you mean you don't like Scotsmen?"

Sherlock kissed him. "I like grouchy British army doctors who wear ugly jumpers and take their coffee without sugar and like to snuggle after sex. And who look absolutely edible in that kilt, by the way."

Their lips met. "Mmm, in that case...hungry?" John asked.

"Starving," Sherlock replied, just before John hoisted him by the backs of his thighs and lifted him onto the bed, clambered on top of him and devoured his lips. "Why did you buy me this kilt, anyway?" John asked between kisses.

"I - mmph - thought it would - show off your legs," said Sherlock, moaning slightly as John nibbled his ear. "They're so lovely and strong."

John laughed. "Alright. But then for Christmas I'm buying you a pair of booty shorts." He squeezed Sherlock's arse playfully. "Show off those sexy legs _and_ that adorable little tush."

John proceeded to unwrap Sherlock like a Christmas present, kissing every patch of ivory skin as it was revealed bit by bit. He loved how sensitive and sweet Sherlock was in bed. The sexy little whimpers he made and the way he would gasp John's name when John did something right - although it seemed John could do no wrong when it came to pleasuring Sherlock. He finally peeled his lover out of his clothes, and the two set their sights on caressing and kissing every part of each other's bodies, while rubbing their cocks together.

"Sherlock," John panted. "Turn over. I wanna try something, love."

The detective did as he was told ( _wish it was that easy to get him to clean the kitchen_ , John mused) and got on his hands and knees, showcasing his gorgeous arse. John grinned as he kissed both adorably plump cheeks. "John?" said Sherlock, a little unsure. "What are you going to do?"

"Something you'll like, love. Trust me." John pulled Sherlock's buttocks apart and placed a kiss right on Sherlock's entrance. "Oh!" said the detective in surprise.

John grinned and proceed to lick and lap at Sherlock's arsehole, till that little furl of muscle relaxed and John could really push his tongue in. "Ooh, John," moaned Sherlock, arching his back. His prick was erect against his own stomach, leaking onto the bedding below. "Get inside me, _please_."

"Anything for you, gorgeous," chuckled John. "Lube?"

Sherlock hurriedly dug around in his nightstand and tossed the bottle over his shoulder haphazardly. "Ow!" John griped as it hit him in the face.

"Oh, sorry!"

The two of them got a case of the giggles, then John slicked up his fingers and worked him open for him. It was easy enough, what with all the, _ahem_ , activity they'd been up to recently, but John wanted to be a hundred percent sure he wasn't going to hurt him. Sherlock was making little aroused, impatient noises, gently fucking himself on John's digits. It was a sight to see, Sherlock's pink little hole stretching open. "God, you're so fucking beautiful, Sherlock," John couldn't help but say. He'd been struck by the man's beauty from the first day they'd met, all raven curls and eyes like opals and sharp cheekbones and buttermilk skin and _those fucking lips_ , but by God, if Sherlock wasn't the most stunning sight to see when he was naked and aroused.

"John, that's enough," Sherlock whimpered as John added a fourth finger inside him. "Fuck me already!"

"Your wish is my command," said John, rucking up the hem of his kilt and getting into place. They didn't need condoms because they both got checked regularly and were both clean. John groaned as he slid his cock into Sherlock's tight, wet heat. "Aw, fuck yeah, squeeze me-" John let out a low shout as Sherlock's muscles contracted around him and thrust into the consulting detective. Sherlock cried out as John struck his prostate. "Right there, love?" John said, moving in and out of him at a steady pace. Sherlock only moaned in response, so John assumed he was hitting the right place. The fabric of his kilt covered Sherlock's arse like a blanket, the soft scratch of it feathering over his skin like soft hands.

Their pleasure slowly built, and soon John felt himself approaching the edge. Sherlock was getting close too. John reached around and began stroking Sherlock's cock. "Come on, love, come for me, let me hear you, _God_ I love you-"

Sherlock practically screamed as he climaxed hard, squeezing John's cock so well that the army doctor followed him right along, thrusting his come inside him minutely. Sherlock collapsed on the bed, gasping for air. John slipped out of him and curled up around him, gathering the slender detective's pliant body in his arms and kissing his neck. "Love you," he sighed.

Sherlock smiled. "Love you too...my wild highlander."

John laughed, looking down at his kilt. "Oh, shit. Got spunk on it."

"It'll dry clean," yawned Sherlock, rolling over and burying his face in John's neck. John smiled and stroked those silky curls till they were both nodding off.

* * *

Iain sat at the bar, tossing back another shot of tequila. He sighed into his glass.

Suddenly, his attention was torn away by the sound of a familiar voice. _Sherlock?_

No, it wasn't Sherlock, but it could have been his twin brother, except for the fiery curls. The man sitting a few stools down from him seemed to be talking to his bourbon, muttering worriedly about some gal named "Gertie" and getting in trouble with a woman named Carolyn and how it was all Arthur's fault really and how Douglas was never going to let him live this one down...

Rising an eyebrow, intrigued, Iain discreetly moved down till he was next to the ginger and cleared his throat. "Buy you a drink, laddie?" he asked.

The man looked up in surprise. His crystalline eyes raked over Iain in confusion. "O...kay," he said.

The photographer smiled charmingly, holding out his hand. "Iain."

The other man shook it. "Martin."

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's done! Hope you enjoyed it. :-*
> 
> Also, come check out my Tumblr: salve-regina-mills.tumblr.com -Catie (5AOM)


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